


Running Out of Time

by Onlytomyhusband (Babylawyer)



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24914176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babylawyer/pseuds/Onlytomyhusband
Summary: Jamie and Claire's last time at stones before they say goodbye in 2x13
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	Running Out of Time

He’s walking her up to the stones and she knows. She knows where they are and why they are here, yet it still hits her like that blow to the gut from Black Jack Randall, knocks her to her metaphorical knees as she gazes upon the tall looming stones at the top of the hill. 

Jamie has brought her here. 

To the stones. 

To a life without him. 

Just the thought brings tears to her eyes—how is she supposed to live like that? The thought alone is agonizing, how will she survive the reality? 

He told her she had to leave earlier, but she still cannot believe it. He begged her to go and she told him she couldn’t leave him, because she can’t. She clung to him on that horse as they galloped toward a future apart, and she kept hoping he would turn back, choose differently, but they are here now, and it’s really happening. 

She’s frozen, stopped too far away from the man she loves with all of her being. He’s looking at her, and he is as devastated as she is when she asks, “How will I explain all this? How can I go back?”

Because she can’t. She cannot forget this, _him_ , cannot just fall back into a life that is no longer her own. She is Claire Fraser, wants to be Jamie Fraser's wife, and cannot go back to being Claire Randall. She can't. 

“To Frank… All that, I leave to you. Tell him what you will about me… about us.” Jamie raises his hand out to her, god, she never should have let it go, never wants to let it go. He continues, “It's likely he'll no’ want to hear, but if he does…” 

Jamie steps toward her, and why are they even apart? Apart is their future, and she doesn’t want that. She grips his hand in hers as he tells her, “Tell him I'm grateful, tell him I trust him,” his eyebrows raise as his tone changes, “and tell him I hate him to the very marrow of his bones.”

He pulls her closer, like she wants, and she steps once, twice, then it's too much. She’s crying, pants, “The buzzing. It's so loud.” This will mean nothing to him, but it’s overwhelming, is calling to her when, “I'm not ready, Jamie. I'm _not ready_. Come with me. Come with me through the stones.”

She looks at the stones, feels the pull grow even stronger, but then looks back at him quickly because their time is running out, and she needs to spend every moment she can memorizing his beautiful face. 

He’s too quick to say, “Na, I canna,” in this soft, sympathetic tone that she never wants to hear from him again. 

She pleads, “You could try. You hear it, right? The buzzing?” because she needs him to, he _has_ to, he _can’t_ not… 

He shakes his head, but she can’t believe that, won’t. But then he’s saying, “I don't hear anything, Claire.” She feels her heart shatter as those gorgeous blue eyes stay fixated on her. They just stare for a moment, both knowing what’s left unsaid, not wanting to break from this connection. 

He is the one that does it, turns and steps away from her as he shatters any semblance of hope she had, “Even if I could go back through the stones…”

He’s nearly touching it, holding his hand out and she is stuck, hears it calling for her, the pull almost overwhelming, but she can't move, can’t breathe, can’t think. All she knows is she cannot leave him. 

Then his palm connects with the stone and she comes back to herself as a rush of pain rips through her. 

He can’t go through, can’t come with her. The chances may have been slim, but she feels another part of her heart splinter and break at the realization, that last shred of hope that they could somehow avoid this has vanished. Any ability to deny what is happening is gone. This is it. This is the last time they will ever see each other.

She is about to lose the love of her life, James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, a man who’s made her feel more than she ever thought possible. She cannot go back to who she was before, she can’t.

He’s still touching the stone as he tells her, “It's not my place. My destiny lies on Culloden Moor.”

No, that cannot be, he can’t, that would mean… 

She knows deep down this is real, that this _is_ happening. She knows _him_ , had only been able to trick herself with notions that could never be because the denial was strong—after all, the reality of a life without him is still unfathomable, even faced with it as she is now. He wouldn’t be Jamie if he didn’t do this, if he didn’t go back and fight for the cause, but the reality is so horrifying she’d let herself believe something else was possible just to cope. It didn’t matter what he said earlier, she couldn’t process it, couldn’t grasp the awful reality. She still doesn’t want to, wants to cling to the fantasy because what’s about to happen is too horrible. 

His eyes have gone sad, a look she hates to see in them, when he tells her, “But I'll find you. I promise.”

She knows what he’s saying, she does, but she can’t process it, cannot make those words, the ones that are screaming at her that he’s _about to die,_ make sense. She cannot fathom them, _can’t_. 

He’s still talking, “If I have to endure two hundred years of purgatory. Two hundred years without you—” He’s stepping back toward her and her breath is already picking up, she needs to hold him, grab him, feel him—reassure herself he is real before she gives into the pull from the stones.

He’s back beside her when he says, “—Then that is my punishment that I have earned for my crimes.” How can he think that? She is the one who has sinned, he hasn't done anything wrong, not that wasn’t because of her. 

His hand reaches for her face, as he tells her, “For I have lied, killed, stolen, betrayed,” his hands comes back to hers, where they belong, one of them right where Frank’s ring sits, and she can’t help but wonder if it’s some kind of poetic justice when the next words out of his mouth are, “And broken trust.” For she is the one who broke trust, she is the one who did all of this, now _he_ has to suffer and pay, and with his life… 

She feels the emotion choking her, like a vice grip on her throat, and she can barely breathe over the unfairness of it all. She hates that it’s happening to her, but the fact that it’s happening to _him_ is devastating. 

Maybe if she hadn’t been here, he wouldn’t be involved, definitely wouldn't be as intimately tied to the cause and it kills her that it’s all because of her that he’s such an infamous Jacobite. She has brought all of the misery that follows onto his, onto _their_ , family, no one else. It was her actions that brought them to this. If Jamie Fraser never met Claire Randall, he might have had a chance at a long life, but now that’s gone, all because of her. 

She hasn’t been looking at him, too afraid of breaking down, because she doesn’t want to hurt him with her tears. He hates to see her cry and she’s trying to be strong for him, so that these last moments are not sullied by her grief. She does look at him now as he says, “But when I stand before God, I'll have one thing to say to weigh against all the rest.”

His lips find hers and it’s comforting as always, but there’s that edge of terror, of impending doom. She’s grief-stricken in a way his kisses cannot heal. His lips have barely left hers when he says, “Lord, you gave me a rare woman…”

He kisses her again, and her hand finds its way to his shoulder, the other wraps around his neck and she pulls him closer to her. She needs him close, cannot bear to be apart, not with what they have coming. 

But he breaks apart again to tell her, “And God, I loved her well.”

And he did, he did. He _does_. She doesn’t want it to be past tense, doesn’t want Jamie to be her past, cannot fathom a world without him. 

When he kisses her again, she pulls him down, then he’s on top of her, the solid weight of him, almost enough to soothe the ache in her chest caused by the realization that this is their last time.

This cannot be it, they haven’t had nearly enough time together, have endured so much pain, so many separations, and for what? 

To be ripped apart by a goddamn war and two hundred years. 

It’s not fucking fair, but he’s kissing her and she’s kissing him back just as desperately because she has to have him, _needs_ him. 

She cannot let him go without connecting like this at least once more. She’s never had anything like they have, knows she never will again. And fuck, he’s about to _die_ —and she cannot think too much about that or this will never happen. The devastation is preventing her from truly enjoying his kisses, and that can’t be. If these are it, and they are, she doesn’t want them clouded by the agony that she’s feeling because of their impending separation. 

She will not ruin this for him, focuses on him, kisses him harder, bites at his lower lip in that way he likes that always makes him groan (and he does now, predictably). She focuses on the feel of his solid muscular body atop hers, but it’s not enough. She needs to feel him, needs to have him one last time.

She comes alight under his attentions. Paradoxically the grief is making her need this more, is making her nerve endings flare up under his every touch. She’s grateful for it, for these good feelings amidst all the awful, and she leans into the pleasure, shoeing away all of the pain. 

She can feel his erection pressing into her, knows he’s feeling the same way. He rubs against her, making her start to warm. 

Then his lips find her neck, that sensitive spot she will always think of as his, the one that if he, _Oh god_ , flicks his tongue against it like he is now makes her breath catch, makes everything heat. Yes, this is what she needs, she moans as he does it again, wraps her leg around him, digging her heel into his butt and urging him to grind against her. 

There are far too many layers of clothes between them, and she knows they don’t have time to fully strip which means she’s never going to see his beautiful naked body ever again except in her dreams. 

That knocks the breath out of her, and no, no, she can’t think about that, needs to enjoy the here and now, the way he’s nipping at her neck, not gently and thank god for that. She wants him to mark her as his, lay claim to every part of her body because it’s his, now and forever. She’s never going to feel for anyone like she has for him. She’ll never have anything like this again. 

There are tears in her eyes that she cannot stop, but her body is still reacting, her mind pulled in a million directions until his mouth finds that spot on her collarbone, nipping at it just so and _jesus christ_ that’s _good._

The sharp, pulsing pleasure pulls her mind from everything else, has her crying out, hips twitching. Somehow the fact that they are running out of time and all of the emotion that’s swirling between them is making this hotter, and she is wet already, just from this. 

His one hand slips under her dress, rolling her nipple firmly, and _oh god, yes_. 

It shouldn’t be enough, but it almost is, and when he rocks against her she can feel herself slickening from all the delicious friction. The layers of fabric between them dull the sensation, but he’s pressing into her hard, grinding against just the right spot, and she’s sensitive, on high alert, so it’s delectable. 

That hand leaves her nipple, which is still tingling, and makes its way under her skirt as he continues to feast on her chest. He hits every sensitive spot, making her even needier by the time his hand slides up her thigh. 

Just the feel of his hand on her thigh has her throwing her head back. She loves when he touches her, grabs her, marks her. Melts when he lavishes her thighs with kisses, goes to pieces when he nips at them, gasps when he digs his nails in as he is now. It’s a gentle scraping that almost tickles, but is _so good_. She feels the echo of his touch all the way up her leg to where she’s starting to ache for more. 

He’s propped up on one hand, thrusting against her, and he’s so strong, in so many ways. He can’t die, he can’t. Jamie Fraser is too strong for that. She refuses to believe that’s about to happen. 

He pushes up her skirts, pushes down her undergarments, and now he’s pressed right against her, and _oh god_. 

He’s so hard, is pushing himself against her clit, giving her just what she needs to take him inside. How the fuck is she supposed to go on without this? Without this incredible, thoughtful, caring man who’s learned her body so well he can have her wet and needy in just a few short minutes.

He must feel how much she’s slickening, because his voice rasps in her ear, “Are ye ready for me, Sassenach?”

She opens her eyes to see his own fixed on hers and she nods, gasping when he shifts and sinks just the tip inside of her. He’s solid above her, but holding enough of his weight that he isn’t crushing her. It’s that perfect balance where she can really feel him—she likes to feel a man on top of her—but not so much that it’s uncomfortable. Like everything else, it’s something he’s studied her preference on and implemented carefully. He’s such a great man, her Jamie Fraser. He has his faults, but he wouldn’t be him without them, and she adores the way he listens to her, the way he takes what she says and does something with it. He never dismisses her, and even when he doesn’t seem to react, he stores the knowledge for later. She’s never had someone who listens to her like he does, who actually cared about her every opinion even when they disagree, who was willing to re-examine their whole viewpoint based solely on her (very logical) argument. 

Who would have thought the eighteenth century would be where she’d find a man that respects her intelligence and insight? 

He sinks in further and she whimpers, his mouth crushing over hers in a fierce kiss that takes her breath away. God, she loves this man. It’s a sentiment she can’t help but whisper into the space between them when the kiss breaks. A sentiment he returns in kind as he starts to thrust gently inside of her. 

Her hands find his ass, gripping it tightly and urging him harder against her. It’s a direction he’s happy to take and he starts to take her faster.

Her own hand attempts to make its way under her skirt, but it takes a second to bunch up all of these layers and to worm her hand between them so she can rub at her clit. 

He groans a, “God, yes,” as he feels her fingers wedge between them in this tone that makes her shiver. 

Then he’s nipping at her ear, urging her to rub harder, as he picks up his pace, and she does, crying out at the sharper influx of pleasure. 

Her leg comes up around his back and he’s hitting deeper, better, and it’s _so good_. Then she shifts somehow, or maybe he does, and it gets even better. He’s hitting just where he needs to be, heat is flaring out from his every thump against that spot, and she is babbling about the pleasure, how much she loves him, how this should never end and other things she can’t really hear through the haze of her pleasure. 

She’s keeping her eyes on him, actively fighting the urge to close them, because this is it. She wants to drink him in and memorize him like this—desperate for her, moaning about how good she feels and how he needs to feel her clench on him and let it all go, how he needs to feel that. 

His sentiments get dirtier as she climbs higher and soon he’s telling her how damn good her quim feels as she shudders around him. 

God, this is bloody perfect. She wants to feel like this forever, wants to stop time and stay in this moment for all of eternity. This is what they deserve, this is what they should have had, a life spent happy and orgasmic, not a short time together, rife with pain.

It’s not fair at all. 

It’s not fair, but as his voice whispers in her ear, “I wanna feel ye clutch on my cock as you cry out in pleasure, _mo chridhe_. Show me how I make ye feel. Let go for me, _mo nighean donn_.” 

Her one hand grips around his neck, pulling herself up so she can kiss him hard. She needs to feel his lips on hers, needs to take advantage of these last moments, but also needs to see him, which she can’t like this.

She lowers her head when the kiss breaks so she looks at him, can see the way is screwing up with pleasure and god she loves this man. 

“I, uh,” she feels pleasure pulse out, spasms around him just as he’d wanted, eliciting a low groan from him that’s erotic as hell. ”Oh god, _Jamie_. I… mmm, god, fuck. I… I love you.”

The statement is too sweet for this hot and desperate mood, but still Jamie returns it in kind, “Aye, and I love ye, Sassenach. Oh christ, ye feel… _Mmm_.”

She can see him biting at his lip, has that expression she knows means he’s holding back for her, and she wants to let go, wants to let the pleasure skittering under skin rush out, but if she does, that means this is over, and she does not want that. 

So she hovers on the edge for a moment, slowing her circles on her clit until he’s practically begging her to come, warning her that, “Can barely look at ye, or I’ll… mmm please, please Sassenach, I need you to… Canna hold it…”

She can see the restraint it’s taking for him not to release inside her, and the effort he’s putting in makes her even hotter, and suddenly _she_ can’t take it anymore. She firms up those spirals on her clit and everything goes molten. 

He must feel the shift, the way she starts to curl in on herself because he’s urging, “Yes, like tha’. Do that, _mo ghraidh_. Make yerself come on me.” 

Damn, if that doesn’t make her even hotter, has her clit pulsing under her fingertips and, _oh fuck._

Her hand is gripping tightly around his neck, nails biting into his skin as she clutches to him, her anchor as she writhes under the onslaught. 

All it takes is another slam of him against her, that firm pressure against that spot flaring out from inside of her and consuming her with pure pleasure. Her hips buck as much as they can with him atop of her, and she cries out broken expletives as her mind goes blank, nothing but shuddery bliss rushing through her. She’s all body, all wanton moans as the sensation consumes her, so much so that she’s only vaguely aware of the fact that her eyes have closed. 

She almost misses his orgasm, has barely come back to herself, is still a moaning mess, but manages to open her eyes again when he grunts, his face twisting in that way that makes him look even more handsome, as he spills inside her. 

He’s so close that his nose rubs against hers as their eyes meet, his gorgeous blues staring at her. She slowly lowers her head to the ground, as his head moves up and away, letting her see him better. Both of her hands are now clasped behind his neck, not letting him pull too far away from her. He looks away for a second, then quickly back at her and their time is running out, but she's not ready to let go yet, and it seems neither is he. He’s still buried inside of her, softening and she loves these moments, where they are breathless and still joined, the soft, intimate afterglow. 

She gets to bask in it for all of five seconds, pressing her lips to his for a soft, sweet kiss, then a cannon sounds in the background. He’s pulling away, and this is it, but it can’t be. 

Her thumb caresses his cheek as he shifts, sliding out of her as he moves to sit up. She doesn't want him to, but she knows it’s time. 

She’s about to lose him forever. 

This can’t be it. It can’t.

But it is. 


End file.
